


Stuffed

by Anonymous



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bestiality, Cock Warming, Cock-Fucking, Cocksleeve, Come Inflation, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Double Penetration, Extreme Insertions, Fisting, M/M, Other, Prostate Massage, Rape, Somnophilia, Stomach Bulge, Treat, Urethral Gaping, Urethral Play, Xeno, impossible insertions, mind-break, monster cock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-14 18:22:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18481813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Geralt ends up in the hands of people who want to find out exactly how much a Witcher's body can handle.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



> Heeroluva - I guess you could say that I was inspired by your prompts! There isn’t much plot in here at all, but I did try to fit in quite a few of your kinks, so I hope that you enjoy this little treat.
> 
> General disclaimer: the sex in this story is fairly evidently 1) impossible and 2) fantastical. Clearly, none of this is physically possible outside of the magical land of fiction. I make full use of Geralt's healing abilities, and then some. There are some pretty extreme scenarios inside, so please heed the tags - they’re there for a reason!

Geralt woke up in stages, his head ringing. Every bit of him ached, and - yup - every other bit of him was chained up. He was tied tighter than a maiden’s virtue. Which was almost funny, given that he was also naked as an infant.

He couldn’t even remember how he had ended up here, wherever ‘here’ was. He dimly remembered the portal abruptly flashing into existence directly above his head in the middle of a conversation with Emhyr, flickering with ominous intent before collapsing down to the floor. He’d been standing next to Emhyr at the time and had just about managed to shove the startled Emperor out of the way, and then… nothing.

Based on the above sequence of events, he was going to go out on a limb and say that it was highly unlikely the portal had just ‘happened’. What was far more likely was that he’d interrupted a kidnapping.

 _Should have let them take Emhyr_ , he thought sourly. The bastard would be running this place - wherever the hell he’d ended up - within the month. Instead, Geralt had let himself be taken without even a single blade. Not that it would have done him much good, by all accounts, but it was the principle of the thing.

He looked around cautiously, cracking his eyes a fraction. Wherever he was, things were definitely not encouraging. The proportions were all wrong, for a start. The chair nearest to him was far too big, and the table looked like it was approximately his height. At least the legs standing beside him seemed to be a little closer to the right proportions, even if they were a little longer than he was used to.

The owner of the legs was saying something in a language he didn’t recognize at all. Another bad sign. He heard the odd word that might have been familiar - Emhyr was definitely mentioned at least twice - which also didn’t bode well. Definitely an attempted kidnapping, then. What did otherworlders want with the White Flame?

He wriggled his wrists surreptitiously, testing how tight the bonds sat against them. _Definitely not good._

Whoever was speaking had finished up. There was a short silence.

“Ungrehi,” someone else said, low and deep.

It boomed through the hall, making Geralt’s ears ring. He chanced a glance at the new speaker. _Oh, you must be joking._

It was quite possibly the largest person Geralt had ever seen. If ‘person’ was the right word for someone over twenty feet tall, dark blue, and with shoulders wider than a cart.

For all his monstrous size, the speaker seemed more fairly put together than Geralt was. He had fewer scars, for a start, fairly symmetrical features, and pale eyes which were bright with intelligence. He was also, it dawned on Geralt too late, staring right at him.

“Er,” he managed, and attempted to roll beneath the nearby table and out of reach.

Behind him, his captor - Geralt mentally dubbed him Underling - gave an indignant squawk of fury and hoisted the witcher to his feet, shaking him by the scruff of the neck like a disobedient cub.

The man-mountain watched all of this with a bemused, paternalistic air.

Belatedly, Geralt noted the ornate decoration on the man-mountain’s chair, which - it was fast becoming apparent - was probably not a chair at all, but a throne. And the stick the man-mountain was carrying was probably a scepter, or other designation of state.

 _That’s just great._ Assuming he ever made it out of here, Emhyr was really going to owe him for this one.

“Ungrehi,” the man-mountain repeated, except that it sounded like a question.

 _Who is he?_ Geralt rather thought that meant. It made as much sense as anything else. “Witcher,” Geralt replied, as loudly as he could manage. “Geralt.” He raised his shackled hands and thumped them against his chest.

The man-mountain’s lips parted in understanding, and he frowned at Underling. He said something long and involved which made the Underling take a step back and abruptly drop to his knees in supplication. Feeling somewhat self-conscious to be standing while his captor was kneeling, Geralt followed suit. It also gave him the advantage of putting his shackled hands beside the chain around his ankle. If he could just...

The man-mountain - the king - smiled at this. He raised a fist to his own chest. “Spori,” he said encouragingly. He pointed at Geralt. “Windische.” He thumped his chest again. “Spori.”

Was that his race, his rank, or his name? Geralt hesitated. “Spori,” he said slowly, checking to see if he’d given offence.

The king’s smile widened.

Geralt’s captor - who Geralt could see was similarly blue, but vaguely approaching a normal size - said something rapidly in his language, gesturing at Geralt expansively. He slid a hand along Geralt’s jaw, pulling his hair out of the way, displaying his face this way and that. A hand came down to grope at Geralt’s ass as the underling continued to speak. Geralt could smell the sudden spike in male arousal in the air, his head swimming from the strength of it. The king, he thought, rather than the underling.

Clearly, something had gone wrong with the kidnapping and now his captor was trying to talk him up as some sort of grand prize. Somehow, Geralt didn’t think that whatever was happening was to his benefit. He almost had the leg shackle undone by that point, and he tried to pull away.

His captor didn’t like that, drawing his gauntleted hand back for the blow.

Darkness came again, sudden and unwanted.

*

When he woke again he was still shackled - the chain around his ankle replaced - and still naked. He’d been moved from the room they’d been in before, though, and he was lying on something relatively soft. Something that seemed to give a little as he wriggled against it. Something that - _oh shit_ \- felt like a bed.

He opened his eyes, rearing back at the sight that confronted him.

He was in a bed alright, the _king’s_. The bedstead was easily large enough to house several families with room to spare. It looked to be just large enough to be luxurious for the king, who was reclined on numerous cushions, playing idly with his cock.

Despite his horror, Geralt couldn’t help staring. That wasn’t a cock. It couldn’t be. It was as wide as his thigh and probably about as long, topped by a fat, bulbous head that was leaking clear fluid as the king stroked himself, watching him. No - watching someone behind him.

Geralt twisted as much as his position - suspended over the edge of the bed, ass tilted up - allowed. _Oh, no_.

Behind him, stripped down to his waist, the king’s underling was arranging a vast array of what could only be highly specialized torture equipment. There were syringes in a variety of colours and sizes, curious objects which looked like solid pears of anguish, and a large assortment of other items that Geralt couldn’t guess at, but knew they weren’t intended for his benefit. He kicked out with his one unchained leg, letting gravity bear him down to the ground.

“Samo,” the king said, still stroking his purpling cock gently.

The underling - Samo? - grabbed Geralt before he’d made it two paces, stunning him briefly with another blow to the head and hoisting him back up on the bed, ass up and legs splayed wide.

Samo said something apologetic-sounding to the king, bringing his hand down with a resounding thwack on the meat of Geralt’s ass. Geralt shook his head to clear it. When he managed to look back up, the king was smiling. _Oh, shit._

That was pretty much all the warning he had before Samo shoved two fingers into his ass. Geralt yelled at the shock of it, his body ploughing forward as he tried to get away. Samo grabbed hold of one of his hip and held him steady, his fingers inquisitive and relentless.

Geralt panted into the bedclothes. The fingers were long and slender, an yet larger than anything he’d had up his ass . The stretch of it burned sharply, the pain an exquisite shiver down his spine. Samo had oiled up his hand, at least, and they went in easy, the blunt fingertips wriggling into him deeper than he’d managed himself, and certainly deeper than he’d ever allowed anyone else.

He had to keep his head about him, that was the key. If he could just keep calm -

The king said something, and the fingers inside Geralt twisted, scraping over his prostate. It was an agonizing, delicious pain, the touch too firm to be merely pleasurable. Geralt yelled and twisted in Samo’s grasp, trying to get away and only succeeding in impaling himself further. If he could only break his bonds… he’d come pretty close earlier but these chains were reinforced somehow, they had to be; every futile struggle seemed to tighten them around him. Finally he slumped, exhausted, and no closer to getting free.

In the meantime, Samo had worked a third finger into him and had started to fold in his little finger as well. It was excruciating, the rim of Geralt’s ass burning as if he was being ripped open. Samo seemed to notice that something was wrong because he stopped for a moment, murmuring something to the king who advised him in grave tones. Samo let go of Geralt’s hip, keeping him anchored only by the hooked fingers in his ass, stepping to one side.

Geralt took a deep breath and considered trying to run again. One more look up at the king’s knowing smile and he slumped back into the bedclothes. _Not yet_. Well, so what if his captor wanted his ass? He’d survived worse, after all. He’d survive this, and he’d get away, and he’d… he’d kill them. Somehow.

Samo stepped back to his slide, sliding his fingers free and pressing something into him. It was one of the glass syringes, rigid where he shoved the blunt tip into Geralt’s ass. Something wet and _cold_ squirted out and Geralt jerked despite himself at the sensation. It made him tingle strangely inside, more so when Samo pulled out the nozzle of the syringe and returned to fingering him, folding his hand into a cone and pressing the entire thing into his loosened asshole.

Geralt whined softly at the feeling of it, of his body adapting to the impossible stretch. It was too much, and he was certain he’d tear, that he’d be injured somehow, and yet the expected  sharp agony of a wound did not come. There was merely a continuous stinging burn as his skin was stretched and moved and kneaded, hollowed out by the relentless motion of the fingers inside him.

What was Samo trying to accomplish, he wondered. Had Geralt misunderstood? He’d thought that he’d be violated for the king’s pleasure, but the king wasn’t even stroking his cock anymore, merely watching with keen anticipation as Samo’s hand pressed deep into his ass, sliding into him with a smooth, wet motion, Geralt’s asshole closing around the bones of Samo’s wrist.

Samo did not pause in his ministrations for a moment, putting a significant amount of upper body strength into working his fist in and out of Geralt’s stinging ass. The first few times the widest part of the fist popped through the ring of muscle, his asshole had made a valiant effort at trying to keep the intruder out. That didn’t last terribly long. Within a few short minutes Samo was punching back into him smoothly and working for depth with every thrust, opening up more of Geralt’s unresisting guts.

The intrusion felt… odd. It was painful, yes, and the stinging stretch was bizarre, but Samo’s knuckles were now pressing against Geralt’s prostate at every pass of his fist, and the witcher’s cock was starting to stand up and take notice despite everything.

“Hvaten,” the king said. Samo paused in his efforts, his arm in the witcher’s body half-way up to the elbow.

“Hvaten,” the king tried again, and it slowly dawned on Geralt that he was speaking to _him,_ not to Samo. The king let go of his cock and moved down the bed, pulling Geralt up so he was kneeling. Geralt’s cock was now rigid against his belly, precome tricking from the head every time Samo rotated his fist. The king seemed to approve of this. He reached down and wrapped his enormous meaty hand around Geralt’s plump cock, squeezing gently.

Geralt stared up at him and panted, bewildered. What did he want? Samo’s hand continued to work steadily in and out of his ass, the king watching him with patient eyes as he squeezed Geralt’s cock in his giant hand, wringing him as if milking an animal. As if Geralt was something to _be_ milked, something to be tamed.

“Maya,” the king said, something acquisitive in his eyes, and Samo twisted his fist inside Geralt’s guts, his wrist bone scraping against Geralt’s prostate.

 _Oh._ Geralt came in the king’s hand, helpless.

*

He woke sometime later, Samo still buried deep inside him. Evidently he hadn’t troubled himself to pause on Geralt’s behalf after the witcher had passed out and had simply continued to plough his arm into him. Geralt had been put back on his belly, his legs hanging over the edge of the bed.

The steady motion in and out of his ass didn’t pause as Geralt shifted into wakefulness; Samo merely put his free hand between Geralt’s shoulderblades to keep him steady as he worked. Every movement seemed to be a little deeper, making something lurch unpleasantly in Geralt’s stomach. It wasn’t painful, not really; the sting of the entry had faded sometime during his impromptu nap. Now he just felt _full_ , more full than he had ever felt. Samo’s hand was in him so deep he could swear it was in _too_ far, beyond what was permissible. Certainly it was beyond anything he had ever done or had done to him. It was the oddest feeling, the numb almost-sensation of having something deep inside him give way, allowing itself to be tugged out of position and into a straight line, high up in his body.

The steady motion of Samo’s arm did not slow down or time. Every so often Samo pulled out entirely and squirted another syringe of the cold, tingly stuff into him, shoving his arm back in again. Geralt couldn’t have struggled if he’d tried, trussed as he was, pinioned to the bed by his captor’s arm. He closed his eyes instead and tried to focus on his breathing, and on willing down his traitorous cock. It wasn’t working. The constant pressure against his prostate meant his cock was as stiff and as wet as it had ever been, bobbing up against his belly. The motion of the fist inside him drove him against the scratchy comforter in an infuriating rhythm. He had the sinking feeling that if Samo didn’t let up, he was very likely to come all over himself a second time.

 _Just get through it. No one needs to know._ He’d survive this, and he’d get away, and he’d… get revenge, somehow. All he had to do was keep his head down and keep breathing.

Some time later, he felt an odd, knobbly intrusion at his ass that must have been Samo’s elbow. He drew in a sharp breath as his asshole expanding easily to accommodate it, Samo’s entire forearm deep inside Geralt’s open guts.

Above Geralt’s head, Samo and the king were conducting a conversation as Samo worked. Occasionally the king would lean over and inspect Samo’s arm and the stretch of Geralt’s ass, pulling at the rim with his fingertips.

“Yesh che?” The king said, sounding displeased.

Samo said something in return and the king sighed, sounding much put upon. He returned to relaxing back against the pillows, one hand wrapped idly around his cock, watching the gentle motion of Geralt’s body as Samo drove his arm into the witcher’s ass. One giant hand came to rest gently on Geralt’s head, stroking back his white hair from his eyes.

“Skito,” the king said gently. It had the air of a promise.

Samo’s fingers reached another part of Geralt that was not cooperative, high up inside him. They wriggled this way and that, pulling something _here_ and putting it _there_ , high up in his abdomen. It was the weirdest thing Geralt had ever felt, his intestines literally being rearranged inside him. He could feel the fat, muscular curve of Samo’s shoulder pressing into the hot stretch of his asshole as the blue bastard slowly, patiently formed his guts into a -

 _Oh no_. It was the many blows to the head. That had to be reason why it had taken him so long to figure it out, even with the king watching ever so patiently. Of course he’d been patient. Of course he hadn’t brought himself off watching! He’d been waiting for Samo to finish rearranging Geralt’s insides into something that would be able to accommodate that huge cock.

 _I should have kept my fucking mouth shut_ , he thought bitterly. Maybe they would have just killed him out of spite. But no, he’d had to tell them he was a witcher, that he was strong, that his body was _resilient_.

That the king had a new toy to play with.

Samo’s fingers bumped into something solid and unyielding inside Geralt’s torso and stilled momentarily. It took Geralt’s a moment to realize that the solid barrier was his breastbone. That the bastard had managed to open up Geralt’s guts into all the way to Geralt’s _ribs_.

The motion of Samo’s fingers prodding against his breastbone did not stop, but they gentled somewhat in their motion. It felt like they were gathering and releasing something repeatedly; his guts, Geralt realized. Samo was pulling them along his arm the way hose was bunched up before being pulled up.

Readying him to be worn.

Geralt closed his eyes and surrendered to unconsciousness.

 


	2. Chapter 2

When he woke up, the world was in motion. The throne room seemed to be on a ship, rapidly moving up and down, making him nauseous. His whole lower body felt numb, as if he’d slept oddly and his limbs were taking some time to wake up.

He blinked again. The room wasn’t moving, of course. _He_ was. He was in the grip of someone - the king, probably - and he was being...

“Urk,” Geralt gulped, trying to steady his lurching stomach. The king pulled him back down again, Geralt’s ass seated fully on the large balls, that enormous blue cock buried in him up to the root. Geralt’s feet skidded across the fabric of the king’s breeches which were open at the crotch but otherwise neatly in place. The rest of the king’s finery was also present, the unbuckled belt a painful pressure against the underside of Geralt’s right thigh.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Geralt gasped, his eyes wide and disbelieving. Even with everything Samo had done - even with him shoulder fucking deep inside Geralt’s ass - he still couldn’t believe it. How was this even _possible_? Geralt stared down in shock at where the king’s cock was clearly visible against his belly.

What the hell had been in that stuff they’d put in him? Even his own natural resilience couldn’t account for _this._ Every thrust of that enormous, thickly-veined cock felt wrong, scraping his abused intestines, pushing up far beyond what should have been possible. He could see the outline of the cock moving through him as he was fucked, the bulge of the cockhead coming to rest just below where his breastbone began.

The king seemed to be finishing up, at least, which was good news because Geralt’s nausea had progressed from sort-of there to downright worrying. The thrusts became deeper with each flex of the king’s hips, thrusting the giant cock into him, burning deep in his bowels. Each movement made Geralt’s stomach bulge out, the path of the cock inside him clearly visible. The cockhead prodded up against where his breastbone impeded its progress and Geralt was suddenly horribly certain that it was only his ribs which prevented that cock from pressing even deeper into him, as if it could string him along its entire length.

 _Like a sword being sheathed,_ Geralt thought, and felt the ridiculousness of it wash over him like a wave, his body shaking. _Or hose._ _He’s fully clothed, if you count me as part of his clothing._ He remembered suddenly the wriggle of Samo’s fingers inside him, pulling at his guts with small twitches. Rearranging him so he could be worn like hose, or a pig-gut cocksheath.

The constriction of Geralt's guts as his body shook seemed to be all the extra stimulation the king needed. With a roar of completion he thrust up a final time into Geralt’s limp body, his balls churning as he rammed his cock home and started to come.

Geralt shuddered at it. He could feel the twitching of the cock pressed deep inside him, and the alien sensation of something hot spurting into him. It started high up - too high, right where the thick, fat head of the king’s cock was pulsing - and was pushed deeper into him. He could feel the new configuration of his guts protesting this arrangement, each pulse of come spurting through him up near his breastbone and then being pushed back down into where the curl of his intestines still lay. It felt felt curiously like swallowing, the hot liquid gushing too high to feel like anything other than a good meal that was making its way through his system. There was so _much_ , spurting in him thick and hot. His guts gurgled with the pressure of it, his intestines wide and cramping from the sudden flood. He pressed a hand to his belly and shuddered at the feeling of movement inside him, of his guts expanding and flaring beneath his skin until he could look down and see the outline of them in fat curves over his weeping cock.

The king made a pleased sound and reached around to pet Geralt’s scarred belly, rubbing the bulge to work the thick liquid deeper into him.

Geralt made a helpless, painful sound of disbelief and came without a touch, his come spurting over his churning belly.

The king, undeterred, kept coming. His cock was still pulsing, hot come spurting into Geralt’s abused guts with every twitch of that flared cockhead.

 _What the actual fuck,_ Geralt thought, exhausted. _How is this even possible?_ He pressed his hands to the lumps in his abdomen, tracing the outline of the cock inside him and of his intestines being flushed fat with come. His scars stood proud against his stretched skin, the king’s hand stroking over them lazily as he held Geralt steady in his lap.

 _This is a hallucination_ , Geralt decided at last. _I’ve been captured by someone making me imagine this, and… and at some point they’re going to slip up, and I’ll…_ he couldn’t _think_. He could barely breathe from the pressure on his lungs, the cock inside him compressing them as effectively as a torture device. Everything seemed strange and far-away and inconsequential. Every movement seemed an enormous effort, his body sliding into post-coital lassitude as easily as if he was in a warm bed instead of speared on a giant’s fat prick.

He dozed, his body slumping against the king’s chest.

When he woke, the king had not moved from his position below - and inside - Geralt. He had evidently finished coming, but his cock either remained hard or had hardened anew inside Geralt. Either way, the flared cockhead was happily pressed against Geralt’s breastbone, not moving. It plugged all of the king’s come neatly inside him, swelling Geralt’s stomach noticeably. Geralt had been leaned back against the king’s chest, kept warm by the thick fur cloak the king had about his shoulders and that had been wrapped around Geralt so tightly that it was a little stuffy. The king had one knee raised and propped against the other, a book balanced on it. A wilkołak - a monster superficially similar to a wolf but larger, with a drum-like belly and red eyes - was sleeping at his feet.

The king didn’t seem to intend anything other than to hold Geralt in place. Samo came in some time later and spoke quietly with him - presumably so he wouldn’t wake up the wilkołak - and the king murmured back just as gently. The deep rumble of it made Geralt’s whole body vibrate, making him twitch around the cock spearing him open. The king paused at this, stroking gently over Geralt’s swollen belly, then resumed speaking. Eventually, Samo bowed and withdrew.

Food came at some point, the king eating first and then opening the cloak and nudging food at Geralt’s slack mouth until he’d accepted some meat and bread. After he’d eaten, the king closed the cloak about him again, hiding him from view.

Others came and went. Messengers, soldiers, supplicants; even an ambassador or two bowed to the king and spoke fair words to him. And all the while, Geralt dozed inside the king’s cloak, his body hidden entirely from view.

The painful stretch inside him had eased at some point as he’d slept; either that, or his body had adapted to it. The feeling of the cock stuffed deep in his guts had faded to a dull impression of fullness rather than being nausea-inducing; the fat curves of his intestines smoothed out to a full belly rather than gurgling worms as the pressure equalized inside him during the long hours. The king’s day continued, meetings and discussions, the wilkołak dozing at his booted feet and Geralt speared open on his cock.

At one point - during the longest of the meetings, when his cock had started to soften slightly inside Geralt - the king stretched slightly in his seat, his shoulders drawing back. When he resettled, his hand was tucked inside his cloak. He plucked idly at Geralt’s limp cock until the witcher shuddered, rapidly hardening in the king’s grasp. The king made a sound of approval - at what his adviser was saying? At Geralt tightening around him, milking him back to hardness? - and pulled his hand away, resting it on his knee.

Hidden by the heavy cloak, Geralt grabbed his cock and tugged rapidly at it, feeling his insides ripple as he strained. The temperature inside the king’s cloak was too warm for rational thought and he could barely draw breath, his vision flickering with mottled blue and black as he wrung out a silent orgasm, come spattering his belly and the inside of the cloak.

The cock inside him throbbed, coaxed back to full length through his exertions.

The king shifted in his seat, his hips moving up fractionally. Geralt’s belly bulged with the motion, the shape of the cockhead rising high enough to kiss the edge of his breastbone, as if it was trying to crest the solid ridge.

 _It’s deeper_ , Geralt thought with something like despair. _It’s deeper, somehow_.

He raised his hands and clasped them around the bulge, tracing the outline wonderingly.

The king shifted again, the bulge rising briefly beneath Geralt’s numb fingers.

 _How deep can it go?_ His breath came in short, panicked stutters. Was the monster never to take this thing out of him? Would he die like this, worn like a piece of clothing on a world he didn’t even know the name of?

Spori, the king had said. For all Geralt knew, it meant ‘king’. Or ‘owner’.

He did not so much fall asleep as was half-suffocated into it, the heat inside the cloak stifling, the smell of his own come thick in his nostrils. He did not hear it when the king finally finished his last meeting and sent his advisors away, opening up his cloak and examining Geralt fondly. He did not notice as the king stood up, a hand keeping Geralt pressed to his stomach, his cloak hiding him from view, and walked slowly back to his bedchamber, his wilkołak following at his heels.

He did not even wake when the king took off his robe and his jewels, sliding off his cloak and shirt and breeches and settling into bed naked, his blue skin shining in the candlelight. He had a vague memory - half-imagined, maybe - of the king fucking up into him as servants scurried about, clearing the discarded clothes and setting out fresh water and towels for the king’s evening ablutions. But even that vague impression was blurred by the soft, numb movement inside him, and the odd burning in his abdomen as his belly grew, his scars blooming red and angry as the skin was stretched. Geralt stared down at his belly with half-lidded eyes, uncomprehending, watching the skin bulge and slacken as the inside him thrust leisurely into the sleeve of his body. The flared crown of the cock crested the edge of his breastbone with every neat, thorough thrust.

Geralt closed his eyes against the sight, a hand coming up to rest over his heart, as if he could protect it. As if he could do anything about what was being done to him.

If the king came inside him, he was not awake to feel it.


	3. Chapter 3

When he woke sometime later, it was morning. The first thing he first thing he noticed was that he was on his side, his body wrapped in something soft. There was still something in him, but it was smaller than before and more rigid. He flexed carefully. A plug of some kind, maybe?

More importantly, he was alone - and he wasn’t chained.

Wide awake, Geralt quickly checked his surroundings. He was still in the king’s bed, unattended, his belly swollen with come, a plug keeping it in place. He could hear the splash of water coming from the other room and realised with a start that the king had left him plugged up so he could take his morning bath. When had he gone in? More importantly, how long did the bath normally take? He traced a cautious hand around the edges of the plug, swallowing at the sheer width. A handspan, maybe more. If he took the plug out, he’d leak come, probably for hours, like a trail of breadcrumbs. Anyone using dogs would be able to track him easily. But if he didn’t take it, he’d have to waddle around his swollen belly, his pelvis tilted strangely to accommodate the fat head of the plug.

Which would give him more freedom of movement and a greater chance to escape?

Coming to a sudden decision, the witcher climbed awkwardly to his feet and squatted, balancing as best he could. The plug, snug as it was, came out with only a small amount of bearing down and tugging, his rim so loose it didn’t even attempt to close. Thick, pungent come immediately soaked the sheets as it flooded from him in a torrent, making his head dizzy. He squatted in place for as long as he dared, letting the worst of it out, before tearing free a piece of the bedding and shoving the wadded up ball inside his ass to act as a makeshift (and soft) plug. It likely wouldn’t make any difference if they used hunting hounds to track him down, but at least he wouldn’t be leaving them a visible trail. After a moment’s thought, he tore another piece off and wrapped it around his waist.

His legs still unsteady, he climbed down from the bed and tried to figure out whether anything could be turned into a weapon. A small candlestick seemed to be the best option and he hefted it warily, checking the door.

It was unlocked.

_Finally. Could have done with a little bit of this luck a bit sooner, but I won’t spit in the face of it._ He eased himself out into the corridor. No noise that he could hear. No footsteps, no murmur of conversation. The servants might come back at any moment, though; who knew whether they left the king to his solitary ablutions or had just stepped outside to fetch more hot water. There would be personal guards as well, keeping a secure perimeter. He’d need to figure out a way to get past them and not have the alarm raised.

He tiptoed down the corridor, aiming for the darker end. Body servants quarters, he hoped. If the servants were more Samo’s size than the king’s he might be able to steal someone’s clothes and slip out without drawing too much attention.

The second door he found led to a sparsely-furnished room with in-set grooves on the floor on one side and a pile of bedding on the other. The bedding smelled strange, like musk and something wild, and Geralt had a moment of strange hope that he’d wandered into an elaborate stable and there was a ride available. But - no, the floor was stone, and far too clean. No matter how alien these people were, he couldn’t conceive of someone attempting to keep a horse in this place. But -

Of course. _The wilkołak._ He cursed his rotten luck. He’d managed to find the fucking wilkołak’s den, a short walk away from the king’s own bedchamber. He backed away hurriedly, moving further down the dark corridor.  

His luck was a little better this time around. The next door he tried led to the private quarters of a very surprised body servant, who didn’t even put up a fight when Geralt knocked him out and trussed him up with his own laces.

The man was a little larger than Geralt, but his breeches and shirt fit well enough. Geralt cursed as he eased the waistband over his still-fat belly. He didn’t dare press down and risk a torrent of come destroying the trousers. He held the jacket closed over it instead and wrapped his hair in the man’s cravat, pulling the cloak up to hide his face. It wouldn’t fool anyone up close, but maybe if he kept his face in shadow they wouldn’t immediately spot that he was very much _not_ blue.

After all that, getting past the guards was almost child’s play. He kept to the shadows and kept himself turned away for the most part, the hood of his cloak drawn as low as he dared. They barely glanced as him as he sidled past, their attention on checking the clean linens being brought up by the maids, presumably for smuggled weapons. By the time they had looked up from their checks, he was long gone.

*

All in all, his luck held up well. He made it almost to the edge of the forest before he was caught.

“Oh, come the fuck on!” he shouted, enraged.

Undeterred, the wilkołak continued to snap at him. It had managed to herd him back from the cover of the trees and was keeping itself carefully positioned to prevent Geralt’s flight. It didn’t seem inclined to attack him, exactly, but given that Geralt had a stick as his primary weapon - and the wilkołak was a good hand at the shoulders taller than he was - that was cold comfort. If he could only distract it, somehow…

“You know, you should be nicer to a fellow wolf,” he panted after the third failed feint. His powers were curiously numbed as he tried to reach for the wilkołak, his limbs moving slowly, as if underwater. “Good doggie. Good - _urk_!” He twitched on the ground, his breath pushed out of him by the heavy paw the wilkołak placed on his back. His sleeve was torn where the creature’s teeth had sliced through the heavy fabric like it was nothing, closing almost gently around Geralt’s arm to yank him off-balance. “So much - _urgh_ \- for brotherhood,” he sniped.

The wilkołak did not seem overly bothered by the several scathing remarks Geralt threw his way. Nor did he seem inclined to chase after the rabbits than wandered out to investigate the noise and, catching sight of predator atop predator, turned tail and ran back into the safety of the wood.

Geralt watched them go wistfully. “I don’t suppose you’d rather chase them instead of sitting guard over me?” he asked.

The wilkołak leaned down and nuzzled the back of his head.

Geralt sighed.

*

The wilkołak’s gentle treatment of him did not go unnoticed by the king, who - once Geralt had been apprehended by the guards, stripped anew and tossed on the floor of his bedroom in chains - seemed more focused on petting the animal and praising it than on taking custody of his captive.

“No, don’t bother to rush yourself, I’ll wait,” Geralt muttered from his prone position on the floor.

The king didn’t take any notice of him, continuing to praise and pet the wilkołak who - more like a puppy than a monster - was obligingly letting itself be scratched and petted and generally made a fuss over.

“I could come back later?” Geralt called out, a bit more loudly.

Samo kicked him squarely in the ribs for daring to interrupt the king, but the damage had already been done. Those cold eyes were fixed on him, and the expression on the king’s face was anything but fond.

Wordlessly, the king urged the wilkołak up and back to Geralt, the animal rubbing itself against the king’s stockinged calf. For one heart-stopping moment Geralt thought that he meant to have the thing tear out his throat, but that seemed to be far from the king’s mind. He circled around to Geralt’s ass instead, muttering something uncomplimentary at the sight. Geralt had a sinking feeling that it had something to do with the fabric that was still rammed in his hole, soaking up the come still dripping steady from his swollen guts. He could feel a trickle of come working its way down his thigh where the fabric had been entirely soaked through.

“Wasn’t my idea to leave me like that,” he muttered as the king’s meaty fingers probed his hole and pulled out the sticky fabric. For some reason, the king didn’t let the filthy thing drop to the floor but instead brought it back to the wilkołak’s snout, letting it sniff and lick the fabric.

Geralt made a face and turned away. Fucking him so full he was leaking like a cracked urn was one thing; feeding his own come to his pets was… something else.

For its part, the wilkołak seemed very interested indeed in the sodden cloth, sucking it into its mouth and chewing on it with all the focus a canine could muster. Come dripped down its snout and spattered on the stone floor, making Geralt wince.

He had a bad feeling where this was going. Samo hadn’t stepped away, keeping one foot beneath Geralt’s belly so that he was forced to remain on all-fours, his gaping asshole streaming for the king’s - and the wilkołak’s - benefit.

Sure enough, once the wilkołak had turned the fabric plug into little more than a dishcloth, the king tugged the cloth away and urged the creature’s snout to Geralt’s hole instead.

Geralt breathed through his nose and kept his head down. The wilkołak gave his rim a few curious licks before that long tongue delved deep inside his gaping ass. It felt… Geralt squeezed his eyes shut, cursing as his cock filled, stimulated by the rough rasp of the beast’s tongue against his sensitive, swollen flesh.

The king, watching, made an approving noise and then tugged the wilkołak’s snout away, urging the animal to brace itself on Geralt’s shoulders. Its cock was long and thin and pointed, more like a finger than a cock, and it jabbed at Geralt’s ass repeatedly before finally finding the drooling hole.

“Taka,” the king said, sounding pleased, and he pet the beast.

Geralt said nothing, trying to ignore the feeling of his cock hanging full between his spread legs. The wilkołak’s thrusts were rabbit-fast, jabbing into his sensitive prostate and stirring up the come still stuffed deep into his guts. The friction was a glorious torture, his cock bobbing with the force of the thrusts, the come inside him stirred to a froth and dripping out around the red animal cock stabbing into his ruined ass. _Just get through it,_ he thought. At least the wilkołak’s cock was thin; with the way his ass still gaped, he could barely feel it scraping through him, the only sensation coming from the scrape of that pointed arrow-head cock against his throbbing prostate. Come trickled down his thighs and pooled on the stone floor around him, the smell of sex thick and pungent in the air. _Just get through it_ , Geralt thought again, as the wilkołak’s knot started to swell inside him, that long, slender cock still squelching in a rapid pace through the ruin of his ass. _Just get through it_ , and the knot was almost full now. Still that cock slid through him just as easily as a finger might have, wet, obscene sounds accompanying the movement. The wilkołak’s come mingled with the mess already dripping from him and slid from him in a rush of hot liquid.

Above him, the king frowned, clearly displeased. He looked down to where Geralt was pinned on the ground by the beast and then grunted, grabbing the creature by the scruff of the neck and yanking it away, heedless of its whimpers. The wilkołak’s cock pulled out of Geralt’s asshole with a wet squelch, the full knot barely even catching on the rim.

The king shoved three fingers into the wet mess of Geralt’s hole and scowled. Geralt could barely feel them.

_Should have made the fucking thing go first_ , he thought, meanly pleased to have denied the king even this one small pathetic victory. _Not much of a punishment this way._ The bastard had clearly wanted him to hang off the beast’s cock; well, so much for that.

The king folded in another finger into the witcher’s ass, feeling around the edge of the rim. He shouted something across at Samo who was wringing his hands and clearly trying to explain basic biology to his sire. _Bad luck for you as well_ , Geralt thought, absolutely no sympathy for whatever was about to befall the poor wretch.

Samo, though, seemed to have come up with an idea. He was gesturing towards Geralt emphatically and nodding along to whatever it is his king was asking him. He reached down and grabbed Geralt’s still-swollen cock and thumbed the head thoughtfully, pressing a sharp fingertip into the piss-slit. Geralt hissed, clenched as far as he was able, and came in a rush that left him sprawled across Samo’s booted feet, his cock pressed into the cold stone floor.

He panted for a few seconds, blissfully oblivious to whatever was happening about him. After a minute or two, awareness started to trickle in.

Samo kicked him over so he was on his back and knelt beside him, grabbing his softening cock. He twisted it this way and that, as if deciding something, and when he looked back up at the kick there was a light in his eyes that made Geralt go cold.

The king seemed intrigued by whatever Samo was telling him, bending low over Geralt’s cock. Samo’s long, capable fingers prodded the sensitive flesh of the cockhead sharply and Geralt shuddered, his limbs jackknifing as he tried to get away. Almost without looking, the king reached out and grabbed him by the neck, keeping him still. His entire focus was on what Samo was saying as he rubbed the head of Geralt’s cock, easing the piss-slit open so that it gaped.

Geralt gurgled, choking for air. The king eased off the pressure a fraction, still not looking at him, his eyes fixed on where Geralt’s vulnerable cockhole was displayed for his consideration.


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt had foolishly thought that, after his failed escape attempt, the king would fall back to traditional torture. He half-thought he might have preferred it.

Instead, the only precaution the king decided to take to prevent further escape attempts was to have some manacles set in the wall of his bedroom, high enough so that Geralt could be hung from them by his shackled wrists with his feet not quite touching the floor. Mostly, the king kept Geralt’s chains slack, leaving him some limited movement and not causing him undue damage to his joints. He was only unchained when the king had use of him; use being the operative word, as the king continued to slide him down his cock and keep him tucked against his body as a glorified cocksheath. He didn’t particularly seem to want to fuck Geralt that much, being more focused instead on keeping him round with his come.

Geralt didn’t know what the fuck he was waiting for. He hadn’t seen Samo in days, ever since his thwarted escape. What did that mean? What did the king not punishing him mean? The most that had been done to him had been to leave him hanging off the hook, facing the wall, his ass exposed to the wilkołak’s inquisitive sniffs and licks at his plugged hole.

The king kept the wilkołak close to him in the days that followed, even letting him sleep at the foot of his bed. Perhaps it was to prevent any further escape attempts. If so, the need for that was fading with each passing day Geralt spent in the restraints. His body had diverted all of its energies on healing him - on making him adapt to the use his body was being put to - and it had precious little left to give him in terms of strength. He slept a lot, dozing with his back against the wall, his muscles cramping at first but then settling into their stretched, elongated flexes. His belly bulged and cramped with the come stuffed carefully into him, the plug seated in his guts jabbing deep into him where the uneven stone blocks pressed against its base.

Once, the wilkołak had decided to investigate his bare feet. Geralt woke to the sensation of a rough tongue laving over the arch of his left foot, tickling him. His leg kicked out instinctively before he was fully awake and he froze, too late. The wilkołak did not seem troubled by the sudden movement, however. It went back to licking at him, first one foot, then the other, until Geralt was squirming in place and gasping as the movement drove the plug against his swollen prostate.

When the king came back some time later, it was to the sight of the wilkołak licking the come off Geralt’s swollen belly, Geralt himself red-faced with humiliated pleasure. The king seemed to find this pleasing. He urged the wilkołak to lick directly at Geralt’s helpless, limp cock, watching avidly as the witcher squirmed and tried to get away. The motion unsettled the plug and he moaned helplessly as the liquid in his guts sloshed, his legs flailing as he tried to move away from the rough, hot tongue of the beast. The king, however, would not  yield. He kept Geralt pinned against the wall, the plug a rigid pressure against his prostate, and let the wilkołak lick repeatedly at his abused cock until Geralt had swollen and come anew, his entire body going limp with the intensity of it.

That night, the king had the fire in his room stoked until it was warm and comfortable enough to sleep uncovered. He did so, that night and for three nights following, with Geralt speared on his cock, sweating in the warm air. Geralt’s hands were manacled behind his back and his legs folded so his ankle chains were also threaded through the same restraint, the giant cock protruding from the witcher’s distended belly. There was no need for any other restraint, no need for any leash: Geralt’s ankles chains effectively kept him sat on the king’s lap, unable to stand or to even move.

The wilkołak slept at the foot of the bed for the first three nights.

The fourth night, it climbed up beside the king and lay down across his legs, looking curiously at the sleeping Geralt and the wet, dripping cock that sat rigid against the bulk of his belly.

Geralt woke to the feeling of the animal’s tongue licking him clean, his cock stiffening again almost immediately as the king shifted in his sleep. The giant hand reached down and jerked him up and down a couple of times, his belly sloshing, then settled down in the fur of the wilkołak still licking avidly at Geralt’s over-sensitive cockhead.

The next morning, Samo came to the king’s bedchamber.

*

Geralt had been wrong. The king did plan to punish him. He’d only been waiting for the right _kind_ of punishment - and had sent Samo away to come up with a way to make it happen.

The rod was agonizing as it split him open, the sensitive flesh of his cock swollen and hot around it as Samo worked it down his length. Geralt howled, his shrieks and struggles muted by the gag and the restraints, his pelvis held entirely immobile by the cradle Samo had trussed him into. He could twist and writhe as much as he liked, but the cushioned spike deep into his guts wouldn’t let him shift his pelvic bones even a fraction, and the additional restraints across his belly held him helpless and splayed open for the agony of the rod. It burned. It _burned_ , like being split open from the inside. Samo seemed to enjoy his aborted screams and he popped the end of the rod repeatedly as it worked its way down, grinning as it made Geralt buck fruitlessly in his restraints.

It seemed to take forever, each torturous inch drawing screams and curses from Geralt as the rod slid deeper into his cock. The ball spread his urethra cruelly open, and Samo delighted in drawing it almost all of the way back out before plunging it in as deep as it would go. And it went deep, _deeper_ with every thrust, until at last, drawing a gurgling sigh from Geralt, it breached the inner sphincter of his urethra and was seated fully inside his cock.

Samo stepped back, so that the king - reclining on the bed, his wilkołak stretched out beside him - could fully appreciate the sight.

Geralt was sat in what he could only suppose was some sort of torture device. It had looked like a cross between a cradle and a spear, the seat bisected with a solid, fat spike. There were additional restraints for the ankles and wrists, and a band that snapped shut just below the bulge of his belly. It was thankfully a smaller bulge than usual; the king had massaged a good portion of it out of his guts before they’d started. Geralt had tried to help by bearing down as much as he could and it had spattered out of him in a torrent, spilling across the stone floor in a pungent puddle, bathing Geralt’s legs. The wilkołak had liked that a _lot_ , and had spent a considerable amount of time licking up first the puddle of come and then Geralt himself, the animal’s rough, flexible tongue delving deep inside his ass as the witcher strained and the king watched avidly.

His ass was completely ruined. Even now, with the spike deep in his guts, his asshole was unable to close around it and fluttered around the base of the spike, come sliding slowly out of him to wet the seat of the cradle and drip down to the floor.

The wilkołak, stretched out by the king’s side, twitched.

The king smiled down fondly at the creature and murmured something, petting it and getting to his feet.

He took great pleasure in examining Samo’s handiwork. Geralt’s cockhead was cherry-red around the flared tip of the rod, topped with a strange mechanism, like a handle, or a screw. The king said something to Samo and the smaller man nodded, grabbing the rod by the handle and pulling it out part-way before letting gravity bear it back down inside Geralt’s cock again.

Geralt sobbed at the feeling of the bulb breaching his body again, the rod settling snugly against his swollen prostate.

Samo reached for the rod handle again, still speaking. He gestured with his free hand to illustrate something to the king, and with the hand on the rod his twisted the handle. Once. Twice. Three time.

The rod opened.

Geralt screamed, sweat breaking out across his skin and his entire body going rigid. The pain was indescribable, his urethra stretched open far beyond his body’s limits.

The king hushed him absent-mindedly, one hand stroking back Geralt’s hair, the other curled gently around his slowly-filling cock. He did not take his eyes off the witcher’s cock, the piss-slit gaping red, the inside of the tender urethra clearly visible.

Samo murmured something to the king apologetically and leaned in, briefly obscuring his view. Geralt shuddered at the feeling of the cold and viscous liquid being squeezed down his gaping urethra from the syringe Samo was slowly emptying into him.

“Stop,” Geralt managed, shaking. The spike inside him would not let him move, would not let him arch away, would not let him do _anything_ as his cock was split open and violated for the amusement of his captors. “Please, I’ll do anything, _stop_.”

The king petted him again, and said something to Samo.

Samo twisted the handle again, the rod flaring wider.

Geralt gave himself up to the welcome arms of unconsciousness with a wet, helpless gurgle of pain.

*

He was only dimly aware of the next few days. He was taken out of the cradle at some point, he knew that much, and something soft was around him, keeping him warm. Liquid was poured down his throat and he drank; food was fed to him and he ate. His cock was a point of agony between his legs, still speared through. It burned horrifically for the most part, the agony assuaged only by the cold liquid pumped into it periodically. It soothed his irritated tissues somewhat and it let him sleep. He’d wake when the handle of the rod was turned again and the stretch forced wider, the pain returning with a sharp flare through his abdomen.

The king didn’t fuck him during that time. At least, Geralt had no memory of it. He did vaguely remember something slender and hot jabbing frantically into him, and a gush of warm liquid spurting into his swollen guts, but that must have been the wilkołak. Geralt barely felt it, in truth, his entire being focus on the agony in his cock, on the way the king’s meaty hands would massage his abused cockflesh around the rod opening him up. The king seemed to enjoy rubbing the underside of his cockhead most of all, clearly hoping for a reaction. One horrible, agonizing morning, he got it.

Geralt was on his side. The wilkołak had finished fucking him and had decided to clean him up, driving that long, rough tongue repeatedly into his loosely gaping ass. The king caught Geralt’s leg and lifted it up, giving the animal better access to Geralt’s defenseless flesh. Geralt’s cock was split impossibly wide by the flared arms of the rod inside it, the soft red flesh of his urethra moist and inviting, dripping with the liquid Samo had pumped into it earlier. The witcher was only half-aware of what was happening, half-dozing as the wilkołak pressed his cold nose inside his gaping asshole and licked over his prostate. His cock, speared and open as it was, twitched.

The king paused, his eyes narrowing. He urged the wilkołak away from the temptation of Geralt’s ass and let him lick the witcher’s scrotum instead, lapping up the spilled come from his earlier mounting. The animal investigated Geralt’s balls curiously, drawing a moan from the witcher. His cock twitched again, catching the animal’s attention.

The king slid down so he could watch more comfortably as the wilkołak licked at the open head of Geralt’s cock, making the witcher shudder and his cock jerk against his belly. The animal was reasonably comfortable with licking at such delicate skin and he did not require much supervision. His tongue lapped rapidly at the open piss-slit, poking into the exposed urethra and tickling the sensitive skin inside.

The witcher gave a garbled moan and his body tightened as he came, suddenly and without warning. Ropes of come spurted from his wide-open cockhead, spilling across his thigh and chest and the wilkołak’s snout. The animal gave a surprised snort at this, sniffling at the unexpected bounty before quickly licking itself clean. It regarded the still-twitching cock warily the evidently decided that it approved. It settled down to lick at the open cockhead, its tongue working rapidly on the sensitive underside. The witcher shuddered, his cock pulsing weakly, surrendering another pulse of come. The wilkołak lapped that up as well and continued tonguing the sensitive flesh, ignoring the shudders of the body it rested against.

The king gently lowered the witcher’s leg down so that it rested on the animal’s back and settled in to watch his pet’s new game. The swollen cockflesh jerked and spurted occasionally as the wilkołak licked, the witcher’s hips moving involuntarily. The wilkołak was smart, and patient, and careful with its toys; once it had something it liked doing, it could keep the game going for hours. 


	5. Chapter 5

Eventually, whatever it is Samo had been doing to him was finally done. Geralt woke up to the rough scratch of a comforter against his back, spreadeagled and chained to the bedposts. There was a plug inside his ass, not long but certainly wide, keeping his asshole stretched. Samo was leaning over him, pushing a final syringe of that cold liquid into the gaping hole of his cock before carefully collapsing the rod and pulling it out.

The witcher’s cock flopped against his belly, the stretched urethra red and wounded-looking.

Geralt swallowed, feeling sick. What had been done to him?

“Uch nga, thek?” The king said from the chair opposite the bed. The wilkołak was at his feet, watching Samo working on Geralt and growling a little. The king stroked the back of the wilkołak’s neck, keeping the animal steady at his side.

Samo nodded back, holding up the end of the witcher’s cock and displaying the wide gape, the swollen, red flesh inside. Pearly white liquid oozed out from the end as Samo hooked a finger into either side of his cock-slit, opening it as wide as it would go for the king’s inspection.

The wilkołak at the king’s side growled, low and menacing, and the king laughed. He clipped a leash around the beast and walked to the bed, examining the swollen, dripping mess of his cock. He pressed his fingertip against the gape and Geralt shivered, helpless and horrified at the thought of what might happen if the king were to try to force something that large into him.

The king, however, seemed content to merely tease at the open slit, watching it struggle to close around the two fingers Samo still held hooked into it. “Gotivu,” the king said, sounding pleased. He stepped back, gesturing for Samo to let go, and -

No.

 _No_.

He knew, suddenly, what they planned to do. What they had planned to do for _weeks_ , while Geralt lay there and let the animal lick him and fuck him and who else knew what. It hadn’t been enough for the king, evidently. He didn’t just want Geralt fucked. He wanted him _knotted_.

 _It’s going to kill me_ , Geralt thought, suddenly certain. There was no way he’d survive it. The beast’s cock might be slender compared to a human’s, but its knot was bigger than a fist. There was no way he’d be able to take something like that. If they did what they were planning, he was going to die in the most excruciating - and degrading - way possible.

The wilkołak was there, suddenly, his rasping tongue agonising against the swollen flesh of Geralt’s cock. It was awful and amazing, the friction rubbing directly against his abused cockhead and Geralt shuddered helplessly as he felt his flesh fatten up against the wilkołak’s careful licks. His body knew this, it remembered that this felt good, that it wanted more. His cock twitched once, twice, swelling as best it could, oozing copiously against Geralt’s belly. Geralt had the horrified thought that it didn’t look like a cock at all but a gaping come-filled sleeve, standing up by itself and wafting its scent under the beast’s nose. The wilkołak obligingly licked up the spill and followed it, that hot, rough tongue scraping against the exposed flesh of Geralt’s urethra. The beast knew this game and it pressed its tongue firmly against the gaping cockhead, the animal’s tongue licking directly into Geralt’s ruined cock, wriggling inside as if looking for something.

From his prone position, Geralt could just about see the long shadow growing between the wilkołak’s legs as its red, slender cock came out of its sheath.

“Stop,” Geralt begged, his voice a shadow of its former self. “Please, don’t do this, don’t -”

“Bet nezhu,” the king spoke over him, stroking a hand over his hair in the exact same way he’d petted the fucking wilkołak earlier. In the exact same way he was petting the wilkołak _now_ , holding him steady as Samo reached between them and helped position Geralt’s swollen, ruddy cock so that his gaping cockhead was pressed against the pointed tip of the wilkołak’s cock.

“Bet nezhu,” the king said, and he was speaking to the wilkołak, he must have been, because his eyes were fixed on where the wilkołak’s cock was just barely resting against Geralt’s open, weeping urethra, so ruddy and flushed it was like a little mouth, plush lips kissing the creature's cockhead. “Nezhu,” the king said again, and let his hold on the wilkołak slip just a fraction. The red, pointed arrow-shaped tip slid easily inside Geralt’s cockhead, the hole stretched so wide that it felt like barely a finger.

That’s all it was, Geralt told himself, screwing his eyes shut desperately as he felt his cock swell even more. It was just a finger and not a fucking _cock_ inside him, not a fucking _beast_ ruining him forever.

“Udivile,” the king said softly, and the cock slid in another inch. It was thicker at this point, tapered, and as roughly textured as the wilkołak’s tongue had been, splitting Geralt’s cock wide open.

Geralt wailed at the agonizing feeling. His body couldn’t work out what was going on, his cock standing fat and swollen, gaping open around the wilkołak’s shaft, the feeling of that rasping flesh entering him exquisitely unbearable. The beast’s shaft slid in another fraction and he felt his abdominal muscles clench at the additional stretch.

The wilkołak was almost over him now, the animal’s hot breath hitting his oversensitive nipples. He felt something slick drip over the hollow of his throat and opened his eyes to see drool dripping down from the wilkołak’s open mouth. That rasping tongue was lolling almost comically as the wilkołak strained against the king’s grip.

Geralt glanced down and his breath caught. He shouldn’t have looked. Oh, he should have kept his eyes shut, he shouldn’t have looked at what was happening because his cock was stiff and red around the wilkołak’s cock, bulging obscenely around the girth inside it. “No,” he whispered, horrified. His cock throbbed and drooled and jerked around the animal cock stuffed into it. “Please, _no_!”

“Tihe,” the king said, stroking Geralt’s forehead and smiling. He glanced at Samo waiting patiently to one side. “Samo,” he said, and nodded down to where the wilkołak was straining against his master’s grip to split open Geralt’s shaft, to ram his own cock down the impossibly tight channel and knot his new bitch.

Samo murmured his assent. He reached down and closed his hand gently around where Geralt’s cock started to bulge halfway down the shaft - where the wilkołak’s cockhead was, the skin stretched so tight that the arrow-head shape was distinctly visible - rubbing the flesh delicately over the lump. Geralt’s eyes rolled up in his head at the sensation, his mouth falling open.

Above him, the wilkołak growled, its hips snapping forward, gaining the extra few inches it needed to have its cock fully buried inside the Witcher.

With a wet, helpless gurgle, Geralt’s body convulsed at the feeling of the wilkołak’s cockhead breaching the sphincter at the base of the witcher’s cock, the arrow-shaped head ramming directly into his swollen prostate.

The animal gave a surprised grunt at this. It tugged back sharply and Geralt screamed as his pelvis was yanked up to follow it, his muscles straining.  

The wilkołak paused. It seemed a bit confused by its predicament, its hips moving sharply but shallowly, rocking its cockhead back and forth against the tight inner sphincter keeping it tied to Geralt. Its knot swelled just above Geralt’s open cockhead, stretching the very top of the urethra as it grew. The animal whined a little, then seemed to accept that it had knotted, however strangely, and settled down for his knot to swell fully.

The king was murmuring something to Samo, sounding incredibly pleased. He reached down to check the swell of the wilkołak’s knot, swelling prettily at the top of Geralt’s cock. It was enough to force his urethra to gape that extra uncomfortable fraction, and it certainly plugged the witcher’s cock effectively. But it was too large to fit the witcher’s cock. Instead, it was the wilkołak’s flared, arrow-shaped cockhead which kept the animal tied inside the witcher’s body, the head snugly caught past that internal sphincter.

The king massaged the growing knot, squeezing gently. Hot liquid spurted out of the beast’s cock at the pressure, the stream aimed directly at Geralt’s ejaculatory duct and the top of his urethra. Geralt choked as the burning hot come was forced down into his swollen testes and his bladder, his whole body shuddering at the sudden pressure of the liquid there, like pissing in reverse. He could feel his bladder filling rapidly, his testes prickling all over in agony as they, too, were filled to capacity.

After a moment, the king’s hand slid along the length of Geralt’s cock, tracing the obscene bulge splitting it wide. The skin was stretched so thin around the wilkołak’s cock the slow pulses travelling through it were clearly visible. Fascinated, the king slid his hand along the length until he could feel where the wilkołak’s cockhead sat as a lump inside Geralt’s body, knotting the root of the witcher’s cock. He rubbed the lump gently, then pinched, once.

The wilkołak jolted, his cockhead ramming Geralt’s battered prostate and jolting his already-full bladder.

Helpless in the grip of an orgasm with nowhere to go, Geralt’s whole body shuddered, his muscles clamping down and his body convulsing around the cock deep inside him.


	6. Epilogue

The days passed, unmarked. The king was a busy man, and though he was pleased with his newest acquisition, he still had his original objective to accomplish: the White Flame’s head on a platter. However, opening up the portal had taken huge reserves of energy and Samo told him regretfully that it would be some time before they could try again.

No matter. The winter was approaching and Spori soldiers fought best in the cold, when the other army least expected an attack. He would wait until the portal could be opened again, and then he would go through and conquer what lay before him.

In the meantime, there was little to do but wait, and rest. His new pet was settling in nicely. He’d struggled a little, at first, but the regular knotting had done him good and he was gentle as the meekest bitch now, sweet and lovely and pliant. And his durability! Lovely, absolutely lovely. He'd never seen anything like it. He found his mind drifting often, thinking to how sweetly his pet's body accepted him, how nicely he fit around him. A week or so previously, he'd indulged and spent the entire day inside him, only withdrawing for his necessary ablutions, but otherwise carrying his pet with him wherever he went. He was so small it was easy to tuck him out of sight with the cloak, and if someone did notice him, well, what of it? There were privileges of rank, after all.

Yes, waiting until midwinter to make his move was the better option. His men needed the downtime. And for him… well, it was always pleasant to have the luxury of time. To have the luxury of play.

*

 

On the eighty-fourth day after his arrival, Geralt woke to the sound of pages being turned, and a fire crackling in the background. The king was back. He’d promised Geralt that he would be. He’d been working incredibly hard, and for so very long, and the time he spent with Geralt grew less and less. He’d promised Geralt that he would finish early, and so he had.

“Windische,” the king said, looking at Geralt and patting his thigh.

Geralt knew what was expected of him. He slid awkwardly down from the bed and crawled up to the king, his movements careful because of the thick plug inside him and his swollen belly. His cock hung fat and heavy between his legs, a thick plug splitting it open. His testes hung freely, swollen and hot. They were too large for normal human testes, perhaps, but his body had adapted to the demands placed upon it and Geralt was proud that he’d been able to do what was asked of him. He always, _always_ did what was asked of him. And if the king wanted him with swollen balls, then his body could do that. Striations ran across each swollen ball like the hide of a striped melon, the skin stretched beyond normal human capacity and still accommodating every new demand. His bladder, too, was full to bursting with come, a solid lump in his abdomen he had to be careful of as he moved.

The king murmured something under his breath. He sounded pleased.

That was good. It meant Geralt had done well, and Geralt desperately wanted to do well. He wanted to please king, who had tolerated Geralt turning up in his realm uninvited, and who had looked after him when he couldn’t look after himself.

He got as far as king’s feet and turned so he was kneeling with his back to the king, head on the ground, ass up, presenting his stuffed asshole for inspection.

After a moment, the king reached down and traced the edge of the plug, gathering up the slick there. With a firm, gentle pressure, he pulled the plug out.

Geralt kept his forehead to the ground, doing his best to clench his hole closed and not let a drop spill. The king had filled him up that morning and he’d been good, he’d been so very good, he’d tried so very hard.

The king murmured something softly as he undid his breeches, sounding fond. His cock was thick and enormous as he knelt down over Geralt, his thrust punching deep into Geralt’s defenseless body.

Geralt choked, his breath caught. The first penetration was always the hardest one, regardless of how big the plug was, his body fighting the intrusion anew. He breathed shallowly until he felt king’s hips stutter against him, indicating that he was close to bottoming out.

Another shallow thrust, two, and then king’s hands slid around Geralt’s hips and lifted him from the floor as king stood up and settled himself back in his chair, Geralt sat in his lap. The king’s cock was a solid weight in the witcher’s guts, hot and unyielding, the fat cockhead pushing up firmly. There was no longer any danger of the cockhead sitting where it should not; the king - and Samo - had seen to that. Geralt was now able to take the entire length without too much difficulty, the head sitting snugly inside his ribcage. It did make him somewhat short of breath to have his lungs compressed like that, but Geralt’s body had adapted. It had adapted to everything that had been done to it, making Geralt the perfect sleeve for his master’s cock.

And for… other things.

“Tyk,” the king called out, holding Geralt steady. He reached down and toyed with the plug spearing Geralt’s cock open. “Tyk,” he called again, and pulled the plug out. The wide ball at the base made Geralt shudder as it was pulled out with a wet smack. Thick, pungent liquid oozed out; the result of the morning’s breeding. The king had left Geralt hanging off the wilkołak’s cock while he’d gone about his morning business, coming back to watch with pleasure written across his face as Geralt had rubbed desperately at the head of his open cock, trying to make himself come around the battering of his swollen prostate. By the time the wilkołak’s knot had gone down, Geralt’s testes had swollen considerably with all the extra come dumped into them, his bladder a rigid lump.

Geralt didn’t mind. It hurt, of course, but the king liked seeing him swollen, and he liked seeing the wilkołak’s cockhead knot him. And it felt good, in a strange sort of way, to have that pointed cock fuck directly into his sensitive prostate. Once that cock was inside him there was nothing Geralt could do but take it, going where the wilkołak went, tugged along by his gaping cock. His piss-slit was permanently open, now, the hole wet and red, like a cunt he could make stand up and beg on demand. The king was careful not to ruin him, though, and Samo still shoved the tingling liquid into Geralt’s cock in between each breeding. It stung, but it kept his flesh supple and tight enough to make each fuck a delicious struggle.

“Tyk,” the king called again, and stroked Geralt’s cock gently in his huge hand, seeming to want to display the wide-open cockhead and the oozing come inside to the room.

After a moment - summoned either by king’s calls, or by the scent of his own come - the wilkołak appeared at the open door, his tongue lolling out of his open mouth. His cock was already poking out of its sheath, red and long, as he loped across the room and climbed up on his master’s lap, careful of Geralt’s swollen stomach.

The king murmured softly, petting wilkołak with one hand. With the other, he held Geralt’s cock up to the wilkołak’s, letting him find the steaming wet hole and get fully seated inside.

It took a few thrusts. The wilkołak didn’t have the right angle to start with and he had to turn this way and that before he found a comfortable position on his master’s legs. Once he had it, his arrow-shaped cockhead punched its way neatly into Geralt’s body in a single thrust, the internal sphincter a lot more forgiving, now, of the constant intrusion. The pointed tip smacked into Geralt’s swollen prostate and Geralt moaned at it, his body tightening. The king gave an approving sigh at that and stroked the top of Geralt’s abdomen, where the bulge of his cock was just about visible above the swell of liquid in Geralt’s guts. After a moment, he tapped Geralt’s wrist.

Geralt knew what that meant, what he needed to do. With shaking hands he reached down and took over from the king, holding his own cock steady so that the wilkołak could fuck it, come frothing up and around the pumping animal cock as his urethra was fucked open. He thought he had maybe a minute, perhaps a little more, before the wilkołak’s cockhead flared enough to lock him in place inside Geralt. The witcher squeezed gently around the moving bulge in his cock, tracing the fat, swollen veins around his spitted cockhead and gathering up the glossy liquid that spilled down its length. He bore down as best he could around the two cocks inside him, one a relentless pressure against his prostate, the other battering it from the other side, feeling his orgasm building. _Please_ , he thought, _please, I need this_. He hadn’t been fast enough in the morning and the wilkołak had tied before he’d been able to come, his cockhead flaring and his knot swelling so that the witcher’s cock had been plugged twice-over. _Please, come on, just a little more_ , he thought, his hand pinching cruelly at his gaping cockhead, the red animal cock sawing into it in an ever-faster rhythm. He could see the tell-tale swell beginning, the wilkołak’s thrusts becoming erratic. The flare of the cockhead inside him caught on the sphincter as the animal jabbed into him; again, _again_ , almost catching. He wasn’t going to be fast enough, he could see that, and he sobbed with frustration. He just needed a little _more -_

“Windische,” the king said, sounding affectionately exasperated, and he thrust up firmly into Geralt’s guts. The liquid already inside Geralt sloshed dangerously, forced higher than before.

Geralt’s body clenched, his breath stuttering, his hands freezing. His eyes rolled up and his cock jumped around the wilkołak’s thrusts. Come - his own, and the wilkołak’s previous deposits - bubbled up and around the invading cock, thick and creamy and almost turned to foam by the relentless movement in that slick little hole.

“Grugh,” Geralt gurgled as he came, and there was something hot and pungent in the back of his throat. He coughed, spitting out salty globs of wet, creamy-looking liquid into his hand, strings of it dripping from his chin.

“Windische,” the king sighed, his expression soft, looking incredibly pleased. He closed his hand around Geralt’s, urging it back up to his mouth, smearing the come back across Geralt’s lips.

The pointed arrow-head of the wilkołak’s cock rammed home a final time, flaring against the internal sphincter and locking the beast’s cock in place. The wilkołak’s knot started to swell, pulses of hot come jetting inside Geralt’s body, baking his quivering prostate. Geralt moaned and choked and tried to come again, his body jerking between the two cocks splitting it open.

The wilkołak, satisfied, happily curled up on its master’s knees, its cock rammed through Geralt’s, its cockhead snug against Geralt’s prostate. He could stay tied for upwards of an hour once he settled in, and he showed all the signs of intending to do so, pumping watery come into Geralt’s swollen bladder and testes with hot, slick pulses.

The king certainly didn’t seem to mind the idea of some quiet time. He picked up again the book he’d put down to call the witcher to him and rested it on the wilkołak’s back.

“Windische,” the king said again, affectionate. He rubbed Geralt’s swollen belly, smiling almost paternally, then reached for his wine glass.

Geralt stared down at the book in his master’s hands, trying to make sense of the strange writing. His master liked to read, and he liked having his cock kept warm in the witcher’s body while he did so. He hadn’t had the wilkołak fuck him at the same time that often - Geralt hadn’t been able to take it as easily before, and it had taken more work - and Geralt wondered if this was a sign that he was doing a good job. If he was fulfilling his responsibilities. He desperately wanted to do so, to make his master happy. His master loved his wilkołak, and Geralt thought, if he worked really hard, if he did everything that was required of him, maybe, maybe…

After a moment, the king lowered his glass of wine, resting the stem on the swell of Geralt’s belly. He did not often indulge and take a whole evening off, but when he did, he did it right. He had both his pets curled up in his lap, his glass of wine in his hand, his favourite book. What more could anyone ask for? The war could wait, at least for now.

Below, hidden by the wilkołak’s body, the long, arrow-shaped cock pulsed gently, spurting come directly against Geralt’s prostate and into his ejaculatory duct, the slick inner tubes loose, now, and permanently swollen with the animal’s semen.

The king’s hips thrust gently, absentmindedly, into Geralt’s body, pulsing come into his overflowing guts. The witcher’s body clenched and he hiccupped, come spilling down his lips and trickling across his fat belly.

This time, Geralt knew what to do. He scooped up the come with his hands and licked it back up carefully, trying to quieten the gurgling in his guts. His master wanted him to swell with come, and so he would. He would keep all of it inside him.

He risked a glance upwards at his master, his tongue licking up the sticky, pungent come in his hands. Had he done it correctly? Was his master pleased with him? _Please_ , he thought, desperate to see approval in those cold, pale eyes. He could feel the wilkołak's cock pulse inside his own, the fat cockhead a solid lump inside the root of his cock. Each spurt of hot come against his prostate made him clench down involuntarily, milking his master's cock as far as his abused guts would allow.

He could do this, he knew it. He could make his master happy. 

_Please_.

Above him, the king looked down and smiled.

 

 

END


End file.
